


The Boy From Ipanema

by Dancains



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Hair Washing, M/M, Oral Sex, Season/Series 02, This has...some kind of mood but a pleasant ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 06:33:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13781787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancains/pseuds/Dancains
Summary: But each day when he walks to the sea,He looks straight ahead, not at me





	The Boy From Ipanema

**Author's Note:**

> This was something I wanted to finish up before I really focused my attention on stuff for Nygmobblepot Week 2018, and in addition to that it's a bit of a style experimentation for me (also the first Gotham thing I've written that takes place earlier than S3, so the dynamic of the character was a little different to work with)....anywho, please enjoy.

"Can I finally take a shower?" Oswald groans, petulant and bordering on childlike. 

 He's sprawled across the sofa, pajama shirt half unbuttoned, and toying with the edge of the bandages that run tight across his chest. He's been in Ed's apartment for almost two weeks, and he's already made himself quite at home, having spent most of the afternoon rummaging through Ed's vintage record collection and denouncing it as "mostly sentimental old garbage". 

 Despite this, there's an Eartha Kitt album on, faint and languid, playing almost in tune with the ever-present hum of the city outside their windows.

 "No, not yet," Ed answers firmly but politely. He still feels like he's always on tip-toes around his house guest, obsession and fascination mingling with fresh annoyance. He turns to Oswald, half-leaning on the butcher block counter. "It could re-open the wound," he says, "and you definitely don't want that."

 Oswald surveys the dirt under his nails. "I still can't believe you don't have a bathtub."

 "Well, the loft didn't come with one, and I only need the shower. A regular bath would be even worse, anyway. Just give yourself a sponge bath."

 Oswald gives some approximation of an eye roll. "I want to wash my hair properly!" he says, as if it's the most pressing thing in the world.

 "I'll wash it for you in the sink if you want, there's a chair I could--"

"That's not happening."

 Ed throws up his hands, "Suit yourself."

 He goes back to cleaning the kitchen, busy work for the sake of doing something, anything, while Oswald is moping around.

 It's less than twenty minutes later that Oswald relents.

 "Fine, if you want to wash my hair so badly, I'll let you," he says. 

 Ed finds it hilarious, but he doesn't say so. Instead, he finds a plastic folding chair leaning up against the shelves of his linen closet and drags it into the bathroom, its back set against the large industrial style sink.

 Oswald trudges into the small room as Ed's gathering up a plush towel and bottles of shampoo and conditioner from his shower rack. Without a word, Oswald sits and starts unbuttoning his-- _Ed's_ \--flannel shirt. The dressing gown had been left draped over the sofa.

 "What are you--"

 "I don't want you to get it wet." He hands it over to Ed, who dutifully hangs it on one of the hooks on the back of the door. 

 Ed lays the towel across the edge of the sink, and as Oswald leans his neck against it he wraps the two edges over Oswald's shoulder, more in an attempt to keep his bandages dry than make him comfortable. 

 The faucet is detachable, like the one in the kitchen, almost as if it was made for this sort of thing. He ran the water warm but not hot, putting his hand under the spray to check before running it over Oswald's hair. With his eyes already tightly shut, Oswald mumbles to him to turn the temperature up. He does, but just barely, not wanting to scald his own hands.

 Ed usually doesn't enjoy being unnecessarily touched by strangers, but getting his hair washed before it was cut is an exception. He thinks of the kind older woman at the salon, with her expertly bleached hair and the long acrylic nails she gently digs into Ed's scalp. He's surprised that Oswald's allowing him to touch him this much, or at all, as he still seemed perturbed by even the most clinical examination of his wounds.

 He wets Oswald's hair, running his fingers through it just to make sure its soaked completely. Oswald shifts in his seat, but seems to be resigned to not saying anything. Ed finds himself oddly fascinated by the way his hair is cut, how short and choppy the strands in the back are in comparison to the long layered bangs. Ed doesn't think he knows any other men who have their hair cut similarly. 

 The hot water was making a thick steam that now filled the room, surprisingly pleasant instead of cloying. Ed pours a generous amount of shampoo into one hand, scented like honey and almonds, and works it vigorously into Oswald's hair. He just barely spies the contented smile that tugs at Oswald's lips before its smothered into a cool neutrality. 

 He massages careful circles into Oswald's scalp, his hair now soft and slick from the product. The scent of the shampoo hangs heavily in Ed's nose; he can practically taste it.

 "Is this alright?" he asks Oswald, just to say something. To fill the small space between them with something other than humidity. 

 Oswald lets out a nearly inaudible sigh. "I think you enjoy having me at your mercy like this," he tells Ed matter-of-factly.

 Ed can't help choke out a single note of huffed laughter. His fingers pause, but only for a second. "If anything, it's the opposite."

 Oswald opens his eyes, seemingly only to roll them. Ed thinks the gesture is so exemplary of Oswald's personality it's almost humorous.

 "Tell me you're going to use conditioner," is all Oswald finally says.

"Yes, yes, let me rinse this out first." He tries to sound exasperated but it's difficult. Oswald's eyes are closed again now, and the flourescent light of the bathroom is angled just right to see the freckles that run across Oswald's face like a speckling rust.

 Ed remembers Oswald's file in the GCPD record room. It says that he's five-foot-six and that he has dark hair and blue eyes. Its says that he should be considered armed and dangerous, and that he has a vast web of underworld connections and associates. It doesn't say that he has freckles. Or that the freckles trail down his shoulders, to the taunt, sinewy muscle of his upper arms. 

 It's something that Ed mentally pencils in, tucks away in his own personal vault of knowledge. For what purpose, he doesn't know.

 His rolled-up sleeves are wet now, and Ed decides to unbutton his checked shirt and pull it off, to simply continue in the tee-shirt he has underneath. He works the conditioner into Oswald's hair, experimentally combing his fingers through it to slick it straight back from the sharp widow's peak at his forehead. It gives his face an even more stern effect, Ed decides. He takes his time making sure to rinse the conditioner completely, all the while watching suds dance around the drain as they're sucked down into the water's vortex. 

 Oswald's eyes are still shut, and Ed clears his throat in an attempt to get his attention. Oswald sits up, seemingly reluctant, and takes the fresh hand towel Ed hands him to pat his hair dry. He eyes Ed from under his damp fringe. 

 "Is there any reason you're still standing there?"

 Ed suddenly feels like he's choking on the wet steam that fills the room. "No...I...I'll leave--"

 Oswald's hand darts out to catch his arm as he turns, and is pulled away just as quickly after.

 "If you want me to have a bath so badly, why don't you finish the job?" His chin is raised defiantly, and to Ed the question sounds more like a dare--or at least like Oswald wants to make it a dare, despite a quavering hint of something like shyness underneath.

 Ed looks at him, really looks at him, as if he was only now aware of Oswald's bare arms and chest, the most uncovered skin he had seen while Oswald was conscious and not bleeding profusely. The image swims before him, and it distantly occurs to him that he feels light-headed.

 "Okay," he answers.

 Oswald blinks, his mouth drawn open in surprise before it quickly smooths into a careful flat line.

"Well, get on with it." he leans back expectantly, one elbow hooked over the ledge of the sink. 

 When Ed had first bought the apartment, it had been marketed as having a "European style" bathroom; the shower faucet was simply positioned on one wall of the small, tiled room without any distinct separation of spaces, and a drain sat squarely in the middle of the floor. It reminds Ed of the autopsy lab at work. 

 At least he doesn't have to worry about making too much of a mess with the water, he thinks.

 He approaches Oswald again, pulls a clean washcloth from the stack on the shelf above him and wets it under the sink's stream. 

 "Close your eyes," Ed murmurs, and after a second of hesitation Oswald complies. Ed wrings out the cloth until it's barely damp,and slowly smooths it across Oswald's forehead, then down one cheek, and then the other. 

 It's technically unnecessary--it's not like Oswald can't or doesn't wash his own face--but part of Ed is tempted to run his hands down the jagged planes of Oswald's cheeks and jawline and the sharp jut of his chin, to touch it and feel that he's there. 

 His freckles don't wash away. Not that Ed expects them to.

 After he finishes with Oswald's face, he wets the washcloth again and gradually wipes it down the line of his neck and the juncture of his collar bone. Avoiding the bandages that cover most of his upper chest, Ed lathers up a bit of soap in his other hand and begins to massage down the length of Oswald's left shoulder and arm, bringing the washcloth back to sluice over the soap with warm water and wash it down towards the drain in the floor. 

 Oswald reclines against the sink like before, but this time his eyes are open, silently watching each of Ed's measured movements. 

 He works as if on auto-pilot, while still vividly aware of the heat of Oswald's skin under his hands and the strange intimacy he's somehow being allowed. He feels as if speaking would break a sort of trance between them.

 He gestures for Oswald to raise his arm, and he allows Ed to wash his underarm as well. By the time he's working on the right arm his movements have taken on a slow rhythm, and Oswald's eyelids flickers as if he's sinking back into relaxation.

 Ed rinses and rings out the washcloth before gently scrubbing the plain of Oswald's abdomen. It's soft there, with just the slightest hint of paunch, unlike Ed's own stomach that seems to look painfully thin no matter how much he eats. Ed can't help but think that it's pleasant to touch. He watches a few stray beads of water seep into the hem of Oswald's flannel pants, and suddenly realizes how suggestive his position is, crouched on the wet tile floor in between Oswald's parted knees.

 With his other hand he pushes back the curls that cling to his own forehead, dampened with not only steam but sweat.

 When Ed finally speaks, he has to force his voice from where it's stuck in the back of his throat. His hand hesitates near the waistband of Oswald's pants. "D-do you want me to--"

 Oswald stands up without warning, forcing Ed scoot away to avoid colliding with him. Ed expects him to try and move past him to get to the door, but instead Oswald just stands there. Making pointed eye contact with Ed, he hooks a thumb under his waistband but doesn't pull at it. 

 Ed looks at Oswald's hand, then at his face, and without thinking licks his dry lips. He realizes that Oswald is waiting for some sort of confirmation, so he nods his head minutely. It's all that it takes.

 Using a hand on the sink's edge to steady himself, Oswald peels off the pajama pants and--oh, he's not wearing underwear, Ed realizes. Somehow, he's more surprised by the fact that Oswald was wearing his pajama pants without anything under them than the fact that Oswald is standing in front of him in the nude.

 Surprised isn't the best word. Intrigued?

 Ed ponders it while Oswald sits again, his legs spread just barely.

  _Oh...gosh,_ Ed thinks. He certainly is nude.

 "Well," Oswald intones, too soft to be haughty. Ed can see goosebumps on his skin.

 He pushes himself up on shaky legs to retrieve a fresh washcloth and run it under the hot water. He kneels again with the wrung cloth in one hand.

 He doesn't know how far Oswald expects this to go, and he's not entirely sure yet himself how far he wants it to, but Ed certainly doesn't want to stop. 

 Oswald lets out a small gasp as he tenderly takes his knee in one hand and starts to wash his thigh, scrubbing from his hip to his knee, but narrowly avoiding so much as brushing his cock. He works his way down Oswald's leg, making his movements especially gentle against the raised web of scar tissue that runs down his leg, culminating where his ankle is permanently set at an irregular angle. Ed thinks it's interesting to look at, but he thinks that every part of Oswald is interesting to look at. 

 He goes through the same motions for the other leg, drawing it out so the process is even slower. He can hear Oswald's breath above him growing short and ragged. When he's finished with the leg his gaze draws back to Oswald's cock, not a foot away from him, somewhere between flaccid and half-hard. 

He looks up at Oswald, whose expression reminds him of when Ed first found him in the woods: desperate for assistance...desperate for something, at any rate.

 "Can I--"

 Oswald nods slowly then quickly. "Yes...yes."

 Still using the washcloth, he works slowly up and down Oswald's length, washing it with as much care as the rest of his body. He feels a thigh tense under his other hand as Oswald lets out a high keening whimper. When his eyes flit up to him, Oswald looks as if he's been punched in the gut, his jaw slack and his eyes shut tight. Ed almost stops, mistakenly thinking he's in pain. But he's not.

 Oswald grows harder in his hand, while still making a multitude of tight, catching noises that go straight to Ed's own groin. He's surprised by how sensitive Oswald seems, until he realizes that the Penguin might not be as sexually experienced as Ed would expect. Maybe not even as sexually experienced as Ed is, which really isn't much. It's something to ponder later, Ed decides. Maybe even something to ask him, if he seemed amenable to personal questions, even though that wasn't often. 

 More importantly, Ed's curious how far he can push this little charade between them.

  _Roleplay_ \--he decides--is actually a better word for it. A wink and a nod and they can both pretend this didn't happen. Even though Ed doesn't really want to do that.

 He stops and leans back on his haunches, the knees of his slacks now thoroughly soaked from the wet tiles. They're sore too, but he doesn't properly notice. 

 Oswald instantly lets out a groan of frustration. Ed can see his prick better now, taunt and swollen and pink tipped, curving up to almost nudge at Oswald's stomach.

 "Maybe it'd be better," Ed stutters, "...if I used my mouth." It admittedly had sounded more seductive in his head.

 Oswald's eyes go wide. He audibly swallows. 

 Ed's sure he's made a mistake.

 "Okay," Oswald answers.

 "Are you sure--"

 "Please." Oswald draws it out into multiple syllables.

 Ed drops the washcloth to the floor, and it makes a wet sort of smack that cuts through the silence. Without any pretense, he wraps his bare hand around the base of Oswald's cock, giving it a few long strokes. He cups his sac experimentally with his other hand, just for the sake of feeling more of him. Oswald continues making encouraging noises, his thighs visibly trembling.

 Ed finally leans in, trying to remember everything he had ever heard about giving head before, in lieu of personal experience. He licks just the tip, trying to acclimate himself to the taste and the sensation. Above him, he thinks he hears Oswald groan, or perhaps it's simply the sound of his own blood roaring in his ears.

 Doing his best to use just his spit-slicked lips and not his teeth, he pushes his mouth over the head of it, moving barely an inch before Oswald's hips jerk forward involuntarily. 

 "Shit, shit, I'm sorry," Oswald splutters.

 Ed pulls his mouth off, leaving a sliver of saliva and precum in his wake. If it had been any farther past his lips he might have choked a bit.

 "That's okay," Ed reassures him softly. Oswald's face is vividly flushed, and Ed supposes his own probably is too. 

 With a hand on Oswald's hip and another wrapped around him, Ed licks a slow wet strip from the base to the head, before flicking the tip of it at the slit there. This time, as he tries to take more of Oswald in his mouth, he ventures a glance up at him. When they lock eyes Ed thinks he can feel Oswald twitch in his mouth. It sends a sudden bolt of arousal straight to his own cock. 

 Oswald feels even more substantial in his mouth than his hand, he can't remember the last time his mouth felt so entirely full with anything. He curiously traces a vein with the flat of his tongue, before trying to initiate a rhythmic back and forth motion like he thinks he's supposed to, making a point to breath through his nose.

 Oswald's voice is still garbled and stuttering as Ed blows him, one of his hands tightly clenched at the sink's edge while he seems unsure of what to do with the other. He settles for shakily carding his fingers through Ed's hair, doing his best not to tug at it or forcefully hold Ed in place.

 Ed has both hands tightly clenched at Oswald's hips, where his inadvertent jerks and thrusts are becoming more erratic. Desperate for some friction of his own, he finds himself rutting up against Oswald's good leg. The grating drag of his clothed cock against Oswald's shin is just enough to sate his discomfort but not enough to bring him to completion.

 "Fuck...Ed... _fuck,_ I'm really close," Oswald groans hoarsely, "You should probably--"

 Just the thought of Oswald coming in his mouth is nearly enough to wring his own climax out of him, but instead he pulls off with a wet sound, and replaces the tight suction of his lips with the rough friction of his clenched fist.

 It only takes a few more tugs to make Oswald come, his whole body silently shuddering as he spills across Ed's chin and the front of his shirt. Ed keeps working his fist, until Oswald finishes and stills. They're both panting, trying to regain their breath, Oswald more so than Ed.

 Ed shifts on the floor so he's sitting on his backside instead of kneeling, the dull discomfort radiating from them finally catching up to him. He can feel the tacky wetness on his chin, and without thinking his tongue darts out to catch a taste of it. He finds it reminiscent of the salty, bitter tang that already lingers on his tongue.

 The brief movement doesn't go unnoticed by Oswald, and it wrings one last noise of pained pleasure from deep in his throat. They're both quiet for a moment after that. The muffled sound of the record player in the other room has stopped.

 For once, Ed finds that he can't string a sentence together to save his life. He has no idea how this will change the peculiar almost-friendship that's been growing between them.

 Oswald's glassy gaze still seems fully absorbed by the splattering of come across Ed's front, gradually drifting down to the highly visible tent in his slacks.

 "I suppose you're going to want to...clean yourself off," Oswald says, sounding dazed.

 Ed follows his eyes to the shower head on the wall.

 "Are you going to," Ed pauses, searching for the right word, "step out." He needs to make sure Oswald means what Ed thinks he means.

 "Only if you want me to."

 "I don't."

 Before he can falter, Ed pulls the stained shirt up and over his neck and tosses it into the corner of the room. Oswald watches him, unabashedly, as he pops the button on his slacks and undoes the fly. He pulls them off, tossing them in the same direction. He leaves his briefs on for a moment--not that they're doing particularly much to cover him--as he takes the few long steps to the wall-mounted shower head. 

 Toying with the finicky dials, he finally draws out a steady, warm stream of water from the aging pipes. The spray doesn't go nearly far enough to hit Oswald, where he's still seated near the sink, but as soon as it hits the minutely angled floor it rushes to pool at his bare feet and finally circle down the drain.

 Ed stands under the spray, scrubbing his hands down his face and chest. He turns to see Oswald watching him, with what can only be longing painted across his features. Up until this point, Ed had suspected that Oswald only saw him as a means to an end, and not, for lack of a better phrase, a genuine object of desire. Now, Ed reconsiders this hypothesis. With one hand against the wall, he turns his body so Oswald can see him in profile, and slowly peels off his clinging, water-sheer briefs. 

 He's not sure if he's the willing subject of voyeurism, or in actuality the perpetrator of it, as he watches Oswald bite down hard on his own lip and work and a hand in between his legs, even though he's certainly too spent and tender to be erect again any time soon.

 Unable to put it off any longer, Ed touches himself, nearly gasping from the sweet relief of it. He works his hand in tight, twisting motions, as if he was alone, as if he was simply taking care of a case of morning wood before readying himself for work, or unwinding after a stressful day, instead of putting on a show for a fixated audience of one.

 He presses his cheek to the wall's cool tiles, the contrast against his heated skin feeling utterly delightful. He grits his teeth, his eyes shut painfully tight, as he allows his consciousness of Oswald's gaze to finally push him over the edge. 

 He stays like that, leaning against the wall and regaining his breath as the shower's spray slides down his back, until a shuffling noise brings him back to reality and he realizes Oswald has left the bathroom and shut the door behind him.

 Ed feels a sickly sinking feeling deep in his stomach. He turns the water off and finds a towel to briefly dry himself before wrapping it around his waist. He takes a deep breath before opening the door.

 As his eyes adjust to the dim light he makes out Oswald's figure in the bed, nestled under the layers of sheets and quilts with his back turned to Ed. The room is noticeably cold, so he dresses quickly in a fresh pair of pajamas and begins to ready the sofa to go to sleep. It's a little earlier than when he usually retires, but he can't think of anything better to do, given the circumstances. Behind him, Oswald shifts on the bed, making the mattress coils creak. His voice startles Ed.

 "What are you doing?"

 Ed squints at Oswald, who only exists as a blurred figure at this distance, without the aid of his glasses. "What?" His own voice is high and sharp, threatening to crack.

 "Come here." 

 When he moves closer, Ed can see from the drawn back covers that Oswald is wearing a pair of his boxers and a frayed Gotham University tee-shirt from the back of his closet. He realizes that Oswald wants him to get in the bed with him. 

 Oswald scoots over as Ed concedes to his request. He lays on his back, nervously avoiding eye contact, before Oswald nudges his shoulder, prompting him to roll on his side. Why did Oswald want to be next to him if he didn't even want Ed facing him? 

 His question is answered as soon as he feels Oswald curl up behind him, so gingerly it's almost imperceptible at first. He presses the side of his face to Ed's back, in between his shoulder blades, and tentatively wraps an arm around him.The intimacy of it brings a tender blossoming heat to Ed's chest. "Thank you," he whispers to Oswald.

 He feels a hot huff of breath through the back of his shirt, almost like laughter. "Don't thank me. I should be thanking you."

 "For, um...?" Ed isn't sure, exactly, how to put what had transpired between them into words.

 Oswald genuinely laughs this time, though he tries to muffle it. "Yes, for that, and...for everything you've done for me."

 Ed turns to face him, and he instantly sees the earnestly in his face. He imagines Oswald isn't used to thanking people. He paints a beautiful image like this, Ed muses, cheek pressed to the pillow and still-damp hair wild and mussed. He's back-lit by the tinge of neon seeping in from outside, but his features are no less stark. 

 "Can I kiss you?" Ed asks, whisper-soft.

"Ed--"

 "And then I swear I'll turn back around so you can spoon me to your heart's content."

 Oswald slaps his shoulder reprimandingly, and they're suddenly both giggling, breathless and childlike, before Oswald draws him in close and quiets him with the press of their lips.


End file.
